


like you're running out of time

by galaxyjun



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Introspection, mostly abt his super busy schedule, this is a personal character study to get a better grip of him as a character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 15:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14673834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxyjun/pseuds/galaxyjun
Summary: mark sleeps in blinkstitle from "Non-Stop" from the musicalHamilton





	like you're running out of time

mark sleeps in blinks. closes his eyes at 10 o’clock and opens them a few hours later. sleep doesn’t cling to him, doesn’t stick to his eyelids and tug at his limbs to pull him back to bed. eyes close, eyes open, get up, get going.

it makes it easier to catch up. that’s good, at least. it isn’t so hard to rouse him if he decides to rest in cars or waiting rooms. he’s gotten used to sleeping still too, you can’t move too much on plastic chairs or sofas. lie still, breathe carefully, eyes closed, then open, get up, get going.

sometimes, when mark gets to get into bed, he’ll tuck his pillow between his thighs and smother his face in it and breathe in his own scent. deep inhales, long exhales. fill his lungs with something tangible, something real. he doesn’t always know if he is.

mark is selfish, sometimes. they’ll be in the car and the cars will stretch endlessly in front of them and their manager will sigh and tap his fingers against the steering wheel, a rapid one-two-three-four. the members will shift and groan and mutter but in mark’s eyes each car is another five, ten minutes. he would try to add all the time on his fingers but it’s a luxury, a luxury to be able to count what you have without wasting any, and so mark throws all thoughts of numbers out of his mind and closes his eyes.

go under, get pulled back up.

the members ask sometimes. over breakfast or in waiting rooms or during practice. Eyes wide and soft with concern, curiosity, awe. they ask how much and all mark can do is shrug and move on. he’s grateful he’s able to sleep at all.

the members help. help keep him going, keep him moving. ironically, it’s almost the opposite of what they want. they want him to breathe, want him to stop, want him to rest. but mark’s selfish and not always the best and so he keeps pushing forwards despite their attempts to stop him because he has to keep moving he has to.

they make him pause though. pull him into their laps and cover him in blankets and pet his hair and whisper “rest mark-yah, come here.” mark lets them, lets them because he’s selfish and he can’t help but push them away then snatch at their worry when they offer it so kindly. mark rests himself against them, wraps himself in their warm kindness and breathes it in, deep inhales and long exhales. It fills his lungs and makes him feel real.

close. open. up. go.

travel is a double edged sword. travel is long plane rides with nothing but a neck pillow and earbuds and seven or eight hours of empty. travel is too early take off and too late landing and flashing cameras that burn and blind. mark almost thinks himself a masochist, look into blinding light and feel nothing but thankfulness. he also thinks himself ungrateful, to look into sparkling and star struck eyes and feel nothing but frustration. but after a certain point the eyes and lights blur together until it’s just a sea of noise and colour and people and mark moves with the crowd, moves with the others, moves and moves and moves until someone tells him to stop.

mark floats. in his own head, ungrounded and unsteady. amongst their units, never quite still. he floats and it’s glancing touches and whispered words that keep him from drifting up and away and never coming down again.

he’s thought about that before. going and going for good. throwing in the towel and flying home to canada and finishing a degree and trying to find a home in vancouver’s ridiculous housing market and taking his kids to the aquarium and spending too much time in traffic. to drift, out of the building and across the sea to _home,_ god does he miss it. But as much as he thinks about it, he doesn’t consider it. nor does he entertain it. or even dream of it. the thought comes, and goes, and then he moves on.

move on move on keep moving on.

and Mark. well, mark doesn’t mind. doesn’t mind the exhaustion ever present in the bags under his eyes. doesn’t mind the way the days melt together into blurs of practices and performances and little gaps in between. doesn’t mind the way his body throbs with pain that sinks into his bones. doesn’t mind it much at all.

because there are screams and cheers and laughter and smiles and words resonating through stadiums of people, _his words_ shouted into the air and actually making contact. mark doesn’t mind, because if he does, he’s scared he’ll miss it. He’d much rather let sleep pass in blinks then miss out on a single moment of… of _this._

mark closes his eyes. opens them. gets up. gets going.

He meets the world with a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> mark's really hard to write for me
> 
> also!!! i hate his schedule!!!! it's trash and sm sucks!!!!! but based on Mark's really genuine and humble nature i feel like this is attitude towards how busy he is, like he views it with gratitude
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/kyunset)


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